


Silent Reflection

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: True Detective
Genre: Brain Damage, Drabble, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Pre-Slash (if you squint), Smoking, dramatic overtures of friendship, i did squeal a bit while writing this, not gonna lie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9303917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: Marty experiences one of Rust's hallucinations firsthand.





	

Marty had attempted to make the car ‘a place of silent reflection’, but it never worked. Rust would sit there in silence for only as long as he could manage, before his whirlwind brain forced his mouth open, compelled him to wax lyrical about the fate of the human race, or the inevitability of things Marty really did not want to think about. Marty always told him to shut the fuck up, but he’d also entertain the discussions. If he was being honest, it was nice when Rust took the time to explain complex shit to him, and give him the time of day. Marty knew he wasn’t the brightest, and he also knew that Rust was _fucking smart._ So yeah, Rust was annoying as hell, but Marty liked their car rides. He liked it when they talked.

Which was why he looked over at Rust, confused, when three solid hours had passed in absolute silence. Rust was grimacing, one hand against his forehead, face screwed up tight with distress. His cheeks seemed reddened, a vein prominent at his temple, and Marty thought, _shit, is he breathing?_

“Rust? Rust, hey,” he reached over, tentatively whacked his hand against Rust’s shoulder, “Hey man, you okay?”

Rust sucked in a deep breath, jerking unsteadily in his seat. He swallowed hard, and shook his head.

“Just,” his voice was gruttal, unsteady, “Just gimme a sec, a’ight.”

The way his voice shook filled Marty with concern, and he watched with wide eyes as Rust’s fingers trembled against his face.

“What’s happening? Rust?”

“Pull over. Now.”

Marty did, slowly, with the deliberate pace of someone who is trying not to panic. “You gonna be sick?”

“Just fuckin’ pull over.” Rust forced the words out. “Please.”

Marty had never heard Rust say please in his life. Before he’d even properly parked by the side of the road, Rust was vaulting out of the car door, movements erratic and hasty. He was barely even one step out of the car before his knees hit the ground, quickly followed by his shoulder and then his head.

“Shit,” Marty hissed, wrenching open his door. He ran around to Rust’s side of the car, knelt beside him and hesitated, not knowing what to do. Rust was shaking, mouth open, eyelids fluttering, hands curled into loose fists by his sternum. He was lying in grass, and the ground was slightly damp, leaving marks on his clothes. The sky overhead was grey with clouds that would soon mean rain.

“Not a seizure,” Rust gasped, apparently realising the panicked assumption Marty was making, “not a seizure.”

“What the fuck’s wrong with you, then?” Marty demanded. He put a hand against Rust’s shoulder, uncertainly, and felt some semblance of relief when Rust didn’t shake him off.

“Hallucination.” Rust covered his face with both hands, hyperventilating, “just– the world won’t stop fuckin’ moving, Marty-”

“Hallucination? What the hell?”

“Shut up, just-” Rust took a shuddering breath, “shut up.”

Marty pressed his lips into a hard, thin line. He kept his hand on Rust’s shoulder, feeling useless and worried, his chest tight with concern. He’d noticed, in the time they’d spent together, that Rust would occasionally slip away into distraction, but this was something else. He’d never seen Rust like this before.

 

He knelt there beside Rust for a long while, and didn’t move even when rain started to fall. He watched moisture dot Rust’s clothes, and could feel the chill of wind starting to hit them. But he stayed where he was. It was only when Rust opened his eyes dazedly, gasping a little, that Marty dared to speak.

“…Hey. How you doin’, man?” He asked timidly, not knowing what to say or do. “You good? We should go before we get saturated out here.” He laughed uneasily, trying to inject some humour into the situation.

Rust sat slowly, reaching up for assistance; Marty wrapped an arm around him, gently hoisted him upwards.

“You good to get into the car?”

“Yeah, but,” Rust looked exhaustedly at Marty, “Gimme a hand, would you?”

Marty felt a swell of strong emotion, seeing Rust so vulnerable and weak. It was a weird feeling; a hot prickle of fear and pride, creeping under his skin. He liked that Rust trusted him. But he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t like the way Rust leaned against him, his body swaying unsteadily where he stood- it was, honestly speaking, terrifying.

He helped Rust into the car, and even went to buckle Rust in before Rust swatted away his hands. Then, he got into the driver’s seat, and started up the car.

 

They sat in silence for a while. Rain started to pelt against the windscreen, and Marty turned on his wipers. He looked worriedly over at Rust, who was sitting loosely in his seat, slightly off-kilter, like he was a puppet who’d been dropped there. His clothes were damp where he’d been pressed into the ground, a muddy stain creeping up the left shoulder of his white shirt. His hair was askew and hanging loose over his forehead, his eyes drooped and tired– but, most concerning of all, his skin was a sickly yellowish colour.

“…What the hell was that, Rust?” Marty kept his voice gentle, but couldn’t mask the demand in his tone. “What’s goin’ on?”

Rust sighed. He reached into his coat pocket with shaking fingers, produced a packet of cigarettes. “Don’t suppose I could ask you to forget it, huh.”

“No, Rust, for fuck’s sake. There’s somethin’ wrong with you.”

Rust lit his cigarette with a great amount of concentration, only succeeding after several attempts. Seeing a chainsmoker like Rust unable to use a lighter? That was bad. Very bad.

“I told you ‘bout all those years I was undercover, yeah?” Rust took a deep drag from his cigarette, coughed quietly. “This is that.”

“That doesn’t clarify shit.”

“Drug addiction, Marty.” Rust’s voice was hard, and he glared out the windscreen. He rested an elbow on the edge of his car window, letting his hand fall away from his face. “My brain’s fucked from four years of injecting, snorting, swallowing, and drinking. I hallucinate. I hear things, sometimes. What the fuck more do you need me to _clarify?”_

Marty stared with wide, shocked eyes. He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, blinked twice as he tried to figure out how the fuck to respond to something like that.

“You get hallucinations often?”

Rust had another pull of his cigarette. “Don’t really know what you mean by ‘often’, Marty,” his voice was exhausted, and defensive, “if you’re askin’ whether I get them every day, the answer is no.”

“How often do you get them?”

Rust shrugged. He let out a cloud of grey smoke, and it settled into a haze between them.

“Every few days,” he eventually answered, “It depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“A lot of things. Sedatives help, but the aftereffects can be…” Rust paused, “…bad.”

Marty nodded. He held the steering wheel tighter.

Fuck. It made him angry, knowing how Rust had been pulled apart, shredded to pieces by the law in the name of the greater good. People weren’t _supposed_ to be undercover that long. There were rules for a reason. Marty took a deep, long breath, and struggled to contain the sudden and overpowering fury that filled him. The wrongness of seeing Rust like this, seeing him shake and collapse, made Marty sick. This wasn’t how the law was supposed to work. Rust was a _good detective._ He was a good man. He didn’t deserve this.

He thought of cayenne and pepper. He thought of the glint of a needle, and of Crash.

And he hated it.

“Listen, Marty,” Rust whispered, voice strained, jerking Marty out of his reverie, “you can trust me, a’ight. I’m not gonna let you down. I might be seein’ shit, but that don’t mean I can’t do my job. I’m still your partner. I’ve still got your back.”

Marty shook his head, licked at his lips. “That ain't what's botherin' me.”

“…Then why you lookin’ so pissed off?”

“Because you’re my fucking friend, you asshole, and I don’t like knowin’ your wiring is all screwed. It’s fuckin’… _distressing_ , okay? Jesus. You better take care of yourself, you shithead– and if you’re ever in the same fuckin’ room as me, and you get one of those hallucinations, or you’re hearin’ voices or whatever, you better tell me. ‘Cause you’ve obviously been hidin’ it all this time, and I ain’t alright with that.”

There was a long beat of silence. Marty looked over at Rust, who was frowning in confusion.

“...What good would tellin’ you do, Marty?” He gestured towards his head with the hand that was holding the cigarette, weaving a trail of smoke through the air, “you can’t do shit to fix what’s up here.”

“Yeah, but I can _comfort_ you, dickhead.”

Rust’s eyes widened, and his lips parted in surprise. He seemed to be utterly at a loss for words.

“Just fuckin’ tell me. Okay?” Marty felt his cheeks burning. He reached over to the console, turned on the radio. “Fuck.”

He returned his attention to the road. It was only after several minutes had passed that he dared to glance over at Rust.

Rust was looking down at his lap and smiling, a quiet affection softening his face that Marty had never seen before.

Marty looked back out the windscreen.

He grinned.

 

 

 


End file.
